How to Adult
by Mandelene
Summary: Growing up is hard, and Alfred and Matthew know this better than anyone else. Thankfully, they have a pair of off-the-wall parents to guide them along.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This was written as a response to a request for **kayladchristine** on tumblr. If you'd like to make a request, please feel free to PM or submit an idea through my tumblr account. Enjoy!

* * *

 **A** is for Agreement:

He's dead. In fact, he's so dead that he may as well not even show his face in the house anymore because his fate is already sealed. He should go out into the yard and start digging his grave to save his family the trouble of paying someone else to do it. He doesn't need a fancy funeral or flowers, everyone in the neighborhood will know what happened, and soon he'll just be a name that's tossed around the dinner table to scare little children.

Remember Alfred? One night, his father simply had enough of his nonsense and skinned his hide. That's why you shouldn't stay out past curfew, kids.

He thinks there's still a chance he'll be able to sneak in and avoid a lecture until morning, but those hopes are shattered when he walks up the driveway and sees Dad sitting on the porch in the looming twilight, a mug of tea in his lap.

" _Alfred_."

He certainly doesn't sound cheery, and Alfred can't stop goosebumps from appearing on his arms as a result of his father's stern tone. He doesn't know how the man does it—how he is able to get a person to tremble in their boots with just a single word. His voice carries well through the hush of nightfall, and the shadows on his face make him seem all the more intimidating. He's illuminated somewhat by the light that's on in the living room, but the stark contrast gives the whole scene a very film noir feel, and Alfred is tempted to turn around and spend the rest of his life out on the street.

Dad clears his throat and stands from his wooden chair, tea already set aside. He doesn't say anything. He just waits for Alfred's approach, and as the teen makes his walk of shame to the front door, he crosses his arms and scowls. The expression on his face is a mix of disappointment, anger, and worry, but there's a certain kind of calmness about him too, and that's what scares Alfred the most.

"Come here," he says when Alfred inches his way to the front door.

"Dad, I'm—"

The man holds a hand up to stop him and beckons him over again, stance taut and unwavering.

Alfred stands before him and bows his head, and even though he is already a few centimeters taller than the man, he still feels like a boy who barely reaches his father's knee. He is so dead. He is minced meat. He will be the stuffing for their Thanksgiving turkey this year.

"I believe we had an agreement this morning. Look at me when I speak to you."

With great hesitance, Alfred lifts his head and meets his father's gaze. He tries not to squirm and resists the urge to turn away.

"What did you tell me this morning?"

"That I would be home by nine," he sighs.

"And what time is it now?"

"I-I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No, sir."

Dad takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up. The light makes Alfred's eyes sting.

"What time is it?" his father asks him again, flaunting the glowing numbers in front of his face.

"Twelve-thirty."

"So you broke our agreement, correct?"

Alfred bites his lower lip. He hates it when he's questioned like this. He'd prefer being yelled at and grounded, but his father is the type of man who typically hammers his point home with rhetoric. "Yes."

"What else did you tell me this morning?"

"I don't remember."

Dad pauses to quirk an eyebrow at him and then says, "You told me you were old enough to spend the day out with your friends and that I could trust you because you're nearly an adult, yes?"

"Yeah…"

"Do you think you have earned my trust tonight?"

"No."

"Alfred, what do you think happens when an adult doesn't keep up their end of an agreement?"

He really wants to go to bed, but he knows he won't be let off the hook that easily. He came home late, big deal. All of his friends break their curfews more often than he does, and he doesn't understand why his dad has to be so nitpicky about it. Even Papa isn't as strict.

"They face consequences?"

Dad clicks his tongue and the frown on his face deepens. "Yes, but when you're an adult, those consequences can be very serious. They can include losing a job or facing legal repercussions in court. Who wants to hire someone who can't adhere to their contract? I won't always be around to ground you, Alfred. There's a reason for discipline. There's a reason I'm standing here right now and expressing my disappointment in you. It's because I want you to grow up to become a responsible young adult. When you say you're going to do something, it's your obligation to follow through with it, whether you like it or not."

"I know, Dad."

"Then prove it to me," his father challenges him. "And if you start acting like an adult, then I'll be more inclined to treat you like one. While you are living in this house, you are expected to follow the rules that your father and I have set. Do I make myself clear?"

Someday, he'll appreciate these lectures. Today is not that day.

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

Dad uncrosses his arms and lets them fall to his sides. It's a good sign. "You'll have plenty of opportunities to make it up to me. We'll discuss your punishment tomorrow. Now, go to bed, and don't wake your brother."

Alfred nods his head and opens the front door, but he knows he can't enter the house without getting something else off of his chest. "Dad? I didn't mean to make you stay up and worry."

Dad softens his eyes and puts a hand on his shoulder. "I know you didn't."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No," Dad assures him, "but I did expect more from you."

He's not dead, but somehow, knowing that doesn't make him feel any better.

* * *

 **B** is for Budget: 

Eleven hundred dollars and forty cents—that's how much money Matthew has saved from working at the aquarium over the summer. It's approximately the cost of a roundtrip plane ticket to Europe. Or, it covers about 4.5% of his estimated college tuition and fees forone year if he decides to study out of state. That drops down to 1.1% if he considers all four years. Of course, that's the cost of an average, middle-tier out-of-state school. If he wants to aim higher, the cost skyrockets.

In short, his savings are nothing more than lunch money.

Loans are inevitable, and Matthew knows he'll be straddled with some serious debt after college. It makes more sense for him to study in-state, or better yet, to attend a school that he can just commute to every day. There's always the option of not going to college at all, but he doesn't think his parents will approve.

"Matthew, _mon lapin_. What are you up to? It's time for dinner."

He shoves his calculator to the side and stuffs his face into his pillow. "Nothing, Papa. I was just thinking."

"What were you thinking about?"

He feels the mattress dip, and soon, Papa's hands are rubbing his arms. He really doesn't want to talk about his future as a mule for the state, but his father is insistent, and so, he relents like he always does.

"College."

"You should worry about finishing high school first. You have another year to go."

"Exactly, Papa. That's not a lot of time," Matthew explains to him, trying not to sulk. Why does college have to cost an arm and a leg these days? "It's right around the corner, and it's really expensive."

"There are plenty of schools in the city that aren't so expensive."

"But what if I want to dorm?"

Papa shrugs his shoulders and pats his back. "That's your choice. You're going to be the one to choose what school you attend."

"Yeah, but it's not really my choice, since you and Dad are going to be helping me pay for it."

"We will support you no matter what you decide to do."

Matthew huffs in frustration and pounds a fist into his pillow. "No, that's not what you're supposed to say."

He can hear Papa's airy chuckle as he asks, "What am I supposed to say, then?"

"That you're going to make me go to the most affordable school you can find."

"I won't say that."

"Well, someone has to pick for me because I can't do it myself! I don't know what I want to do with my life! I don't want to end up without a job and stuck with thousands of dollars of debt. I'll be all alone, and the government will take everything I own including my soul and—"

Papa pulls him up and into a hug, quite amused by his hysterics. "Calm down, Mathieu. You don't have to know what you want to do yet, and even if things don't turn out the way you want them to, your father and I will be beside you. You're not alone."

"B-But…"

"Shh," Papa whispers before coaxing him to stand. "Let's have dinner. You'll feel better with some food in your stomach. There's no need for you to worry about things in advance."

"But you always tell me to plan ahead!" Matthew reminds him as he's piloted into the kitchen. "If I don't get into a good school, then I won't get a good job and—"

Papa rolls his eyes and looks to Dad for help when they reach the table. "Arthur, tell our son that we love him no matter what the name of the school on his degree is."

Dad has just finished chiding Alfred for stealing a piece of zucchini from the cooling stir-fry on the stove when he shifts his attention to them. "Matthew, we love you no matter the name of the school on your degree."

"You guys don't understand," Matthew says in defeat, plonking himself into a chair.

"Ah, yes, because we've never been in your shoes," Papa murmurs with dry sarcasm. "I don't see Alfred concerning himself with college."

At that, Alfred cranes his head around to look at Papa and laughs. "I don't think about that kinda stuff. College is too bourgeois for me anyway. It's a giant business, and I'm above it."

Dad gives the boy a sturdy swat on his backside and says, "You're going to be washing the dishes in this house until you're of retirement age in that case, because unless you're working or pursuing higher education, I'm not going to keep a roof over your ungrateful head."

"Aww, Dad, I was just kidding!" Alfred whines, rubbing the sore spot. "Jeez… Don't have a cow."

"I don't want to hear another peep out of you, and _will you stop eating_? Papa will serve you a plate in a minute!"

Matthew blows a strand of hair out of his face and cradles his chin in his palm.

He's doomed.

* * *

 **C** is for College Essay:

"Hmm, 'why would you be a good candidate for our school?'" Alfred reads aloud from one of his many college applications. He's sitting on the living room couch with his feet on the coffee table and his computer perched on his lap. Man, he's having a blast boasting about all of his minor academic achievements. He doesn't mind writing a bunch of essays if they're all about him. "I would be an excellent addition to your educational institution thanks to my strong leadership qualities. I'm president and founder of the Superhero Club at my school. I am conversant in three languages, and…"

He pauses for a moment to think. He's a pretty great guy, and there's only so much he can write. After all, the limit caps off at seven hundred words, and he's not sure he'll be able to condense everything to fit that restriction.

From the armchair across the room, Matthew snorts, hiding his face behind a novel. "You're not conversant in three languages."

"Yeah, I am, bro. I've got English, French, and Spanish under my belt."

It takes all of Matthew's willpower to keep from falling to the floor in a fit of laughter. "Alfred, you can barely speak English."

Alfred flushes with anger, and Matthew can tell the remark has left some lasting damage.

"Shut up. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Lying on your essay isn't going to do any good."

"People lie all of the time on resumes and stuff. Besides, I'm not lying. I'm just… I'm stretching the truth, okay?" Alfred retorts, sounding a bit too defensive for his liking. "I don't have to prove anything to you anyway. I'm gonna take some of the leftover ham from my sandwich and bring it to Betsy."

He snaps his laptop shut, snatches up the aforementioned food, and steps out onto the porch. Betsy is the Persian cat that's been lurking around their property, and Alfred's been feeding her for weeks now. She's a loyal friend, and Dad and Papa don't mind if he interacts with her as long as he doesn't bring her inside because Matthew's allergic.

Sure enough, he finds her exploring Dad's garden, and when she sees Alfred, she runs after him like a dog.

"Hey, girl," Alfred croons to her before dropping a piece of ham between her paws. "Eat up."

He gets a thankful meow in return followed by a contented purr as he scratches her head.

He makes a mental note to add "cat whisperer" to the list of interesting qualities on his application.

* * *

 **D** is for Do It Yourself:

"Almost got it… Under… Over… Ouch!"

The boy is up to something, and Arthur is going figure out what that something is. He makes the journey to Alfred's room and invites himself in, brows already furrowed and lips curled with displeasure. What he sees, however, leaves him a bit more dumbfounded than he expected it would, and he braces himself on the teen's dresser as he recovers from the initial awe.

"I-Is everything all right, lad?"

Alfred looks away from the button-up shirt that's splayed across his bed and reddens. "You could've knocked!"

"Are you _sewing_?" Arthur gapes at his son, unsure of how to react. He presses a palm to Alfred's forehead to make sure he isn't ill because he can't think of another explanation as to why his normally rebellious child would be trying his hand at such a domestic task. It's obvious that the boy has pricked his fingers a few times already, as denoted by the thumb in his mouth. "Do you need any help?"

Alfred takes a second to appear insulted. He's been slaving away to fix this shirt for nearly two hours now, and he's going to be the one to finish the work. "No, Papa said I have to start doing more things around the house by myself, so when I saw I had a hole in my shirt, I thought I could sew it up."

"But Alfred, you don't know how to sew," Arthur reasons, taking the shirt out of the boy's grasp to judge the damage for himself. The hole is about an inch in length, and it's just below the shoulder of the right sleeve. Alfred's handiwork is quite visible, considering the stitches are a mess of loose threads and are positioned too far apart. "How about I show you how it's done first? Then, you can try to finish the rest on your own, all right?"

Alfred is reluctant, but when more blood oozes out of his punctured thumb, he agrees. He watches Arthur's demonstration carefully—how he pulls the thread nice and tight while making sure everything is well-aligned and tidy. He's much faster than Alfred is, and his fingers move with deft confidence. He patches up half of the tear and, as promised, lets Alfred handle the remainder.

Arthur observes him to make sure he doesn't stab himself again, and though it takes the boy twice the amount of time to finish, he does a fairly decent job for someone who has never touched a sewing needle before.

"You see, it's okay to ask for help sometimes," Arthur tells him when the shirt is folded and neatly stowed away in the closet.

Alfred scratches the back of his neck and frowns. "But I'm not some little kid."

"I know you're not, but that doesn't mean I expect you to know everything. Everyone needs to learn from someone else, and that's what your father and I are here for."

"I guess so… Thanks, Dad."

Arthur suffers through a shaky smile and tries to remember exactly when his boys decided they didn't need him anymore.

* * *

 **E** is for Eighteen:

Eighteen means a lot of things. It means more freedom, but for Alfred, it's not the good kind of freedom. It's a scary kind of freedom. The freedom that says you can be tried as an adult in court, that you have to make your own medical decisions, and that you're responsible for your own mistakes. It's the freedom to vote, but also the duty to pay taxes. It's getting a credit card with your name on it but having to pay the bills that come with it. It's the freedom to get married in forty-eight of the fifty states without parental consent, and the freedom to deal with the headaches of divorce.

It's jury duty and getting drafted for the military. It's being legally obligated to do a bunch of boring stuff that you wouldn't want to do anyway, and Alfred wonders if there's a way to just be a kid forever under the law. To top it off, the one thing he can't do is drink away his sorrows, and that would've been something to look forward to at least some of the time.

" _Happy birthday to you,_

 _Happy birthday to you!_

 _Happy birthday dear Matthew and Al—"_

"No!" Alfred cuts them off just before his parents can sentence him to a life of accountability. He didn't sign up for this. He didn't think he'd wake up one morning and poof, goodbye childhood.

The living room is decorated for the twins' joint birthday party, and this year it's just them—no extended family, friends, or neighbors. They want to spend this day together, and while Alfred admits that he originally agreed with the plan, he can see now that it was a blunder on his part. He doesn't want to have a birthday celebration at all. Turning eighteen isn't fun, he thinks. They should be crying, not laughing and having a good time!

"What's wrong, _mon chou_?" Papa asks him because Matthew and Arthur are still trying to get over their shock.

"I-I'm sorry. I just…" Alfred wipes a bit of sweat off of his brow with the back of his wrist and momentarily forgets how to make his lungs work. "I don't want…"

He feels like an idiot. Everyone is staring at him and not only has he embarrassed himself, but he's made it rain on Matthew's parade too. He might not be happy about his birthday, but that doesn't mean he wants Matthew to suffer along with him.

When he discovers how difficult it is to move his mouth to speak, he runs for the stairs and locks himself in his room, figuring he may as well not show his face for a couple of days. He'll celebrate his eighteenth birthday a few years from now. Why the rush?

"I don't know what's gotten into him," he hears Dad say to Papa on the other side of the door.

"Was it something we said?"

"I'll take care of this."

Dad knocks a second later, and Alfred slumps his shoulders and shrinks into himself, hoping that the man will give up. Unfortunately, he knows his father well enough to surmise that if he doesn't respond, Dad will probably take out Papa's power tools and disassemble the doorknob.

"Alfred, open this door please. I'd like to speak with you."

"I don't want to talk right now," Alfred shouts back, head pressed against his knees. He wants to be an angst-filled teenager in peace. "Come back tomorrow."

"I want to know why you stormed away and caused such a scene. Matthew is still waiting for us to slice the cake."

"Eat without me."

Dad sighs, but is surprisingly patient given the circumstances. "I'm afraid we can't do that. Why won't you eat the cake, Alfred? You've been looking forward to this day for eighteen years."

"I didn't know what I was getting myself into."

Dad doesn't say anything for a while—he's most likely dissecting what Alfred has just said, and a nagging voice in the teen's head tells him that Dad already knows what the trouble is. He's going to think he's being immature, and that he should grow up already. He's too old to be getting upset like this. He needs to become a man and face the future with open arms. He needs to get his life together and—

Except, Dad doesn't say any of that. Instead, Alfred can hear the smile in his voice as he murmurs, "You'll always be my child, Alfred, no matter whether you're eighteen or eighty-eight."

Alfred's face radiates with the heat of humiliation, and he replies somewhat sheepishly with, "You're not going to kick me out of the house just 'cause I'm an adult now?"

Dad laughs. "I might, but if you behave, I reckon I'll keep you around. Everyone has to grow old, love. It's the unfortunate reality of life, and you have plenty of growing up left to do, I'm afraid."

"But… But if I get old, then I have to do everything on my own."

"Not everything," Dad assures, voice slightly muffled by the door. "Your father and I will be around to give you a hand every now and then. Eighteen is still a very young age. We're not going to ship you off to start your own life just yet."

"Are you sure?"

Another laugh. "I'm sure. Now, come downstairs. Francis and Matthew have probably devoured the cake by now. Perhaps they've saved us a piece. And then, it's time for presents, and I have a feeling you won't want to miss that."

"Okay… Maybe I'll have my crisis later."

"Alfred, someday you'll wish you were eighteen again. Enjoy it while you can."

"I don't know if I can enjoy it. I feel like everything will be downhill from here."

When the teen unlocks the door, Dad is right there, and another chuckle works its way out of his chest.

"I'll tell you what," he says as they make their way back to the tiny party. "Tomorrow, I'll give you and Matthew some money to see the movie you've both been talking about. A day in the city would serve you well."

"Will you add in some extra cash for ice cream?"

Dad clicks his tongue and ruffles his hair. "You have high demands, but all right. Just remember to buy yourselves a proper meal as well."

"Yeah, I know. Can I also buy a lottery ticket since I'm eighteen now?"

"I suppose so. If you win, I expect you to compensate me for all of these expenses."

"Nah, why would I do that?" Alfred grins a cheeky grin. "You're not supposed to take money from kids, Dad."

"Well, thank goodness you're an adult now, hmm?"

And just like that, Alfred concedes a smile. He doesn't know how his father does it.


	2. Chapter 2

**F** is for Failure:

"Hey, Matt. How's it going?"

Awful. That's how things are going.

"I'm not in the mood to talk."

Alfred cocks his head at him and draws his brows into a worried line. He's devouring a bowl of popcorn on the couch while the television emits the booming sound-effects of computer generated explosions and plane crashes. He sure does love his action movies. "Aww, are you still mad about the cornflakes I spilled in the room this morning?"

Ah, yes. Why can't his brother eat like a normal human being? A third of everything he snacks on typically ends up on the floor.

"I cleaned it all up after you yelled at me. I even vacuumed," Alfred continues when he doesn't respond, shamelessly shoveling another handful of greasy popcorn into his mouth.

Matthew grimaces and puts his sneakers away. "It's not about that."

"Oh, so you found out I'm the one who keeps putting the toilet paper on the wrong way and blaming Papa for it?"

"I already knew that was you."

"Oh…" Alfred frowns, licking leftover salt and butter from his lips. "What's eating you, then? Whatever I did, I'm sorry."

Matthew gives him a pathetic laugh as the ever-growing desire to cry blossoms in his stomach. It's so stupid for him to be sad. It's not even a big deal, but no matter how much he tries to stop thinking about it, he can't.

"Nothing. I don't feel like talking. Thanks for apologizing though," he says, because it seems like the right thing to do. All he wants to do is go to bed and forget this day ever happened. He always feels better after a long sleep, and maybe when he wakes up, he won't hate himself quite as much.

Alfred, however, doesn't seem keen on giving up the interrogation just yet. Nothing can stop him when he switches into protection-mode. "Bro, you know we don't lie to each other unless it's about food or money. Come over here and tell me why you're bummed."

"Al, I mean it—I'm not in the mood."

"Too bad, Mattie. Sit on your favorite brother's lap and pour your heart out," he coaxes him, putting on his famous pout. "I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"You're such an idiot," Matthew huffs but decides he'll humor him for a little while. He collapses next to Alfred on the couch and swings his feet up and onto the coffee table since their parents are nowhere to be seen.

"Dad and Papa are at the store," Alfred supplies after a moment, and he lowers the volume of the television. "Did something happen at school? Do I have to beat someone up?"

Matthew allows himself a smirk. "Stand down, soldier. Don't assault anyone… I failed my physics test."

He can tell Alfred is surprised by the news, but he recovers at a remarkable rate. "Gotcha, I'll beat up your physics teacher then."

"Alfred, it's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

It's a silly thing to get worked up over. To the onlooker, it's just one measly test, but to Matthew, it's more than that. He'd devoted his entire weekend to studying for it, and now, he knows all of the time he spent trying to teach himself thermodynamics was a waste of effort.

It's also a huge blow to his pride. He figures he's not as smart as he believes himself to be, and although he doesn't plan to pursue any career that would require him to be a physics-wiz, he feels like he's failed himself. He had the potential to become a person who could measure the rate of energy transfer for a lead block but no—the Zeroth law of thermal equilibrium eludes him no matter how many hours he spends beside his trusty textbook.

"You're too hard on yourself," Alfred states before he can finish sulking. "There's always going to be stuff you're good at and stuff you're not so good at. You don't have to be a genius at everything."

He's right, but Matthew will never admit it. He wants to mope because he hates giving up before he masters a subject.

Alfred ruffles his hair and passes him the bowl of popcorn. "You could've told me you need help with physics. I could probably explain it to you. You don't havta be embarrassed."

It's true, as an aspiring engineer, Alfred loves anything and everything mechanical. He can take apart a computer, fix a microwave, and find exactly what's wrong with a circuit. He sees in numbers and works with his hands. To him, life is a series of moving equations and mathematical laws. He demolishes things and builds something even better out of the rubble.

As such, physics is second nature to him, and he takes to it like a pig takes to mud, but Matthew can't bring himself to ask his brother for help with academics, mostly because Alfred is the one who should be asking him for tutoring, and not the other way around.

"It doesn't make you dumb," Alfred assures him, sticky fingers fumbling with the TV remote. "We can study tomorrow, okay? Right now, we're gonna finish watching this movie about robots taking over the planet, so get comfy. Everything will seem better in the morning."

It's a difficult lesson to swallow, but he'll warm up to it. "Okay."

Papa and Dad come home an hour later, and when they see their sons fast asleep with an empty bowl of popcorn between them, they decide not to ask any questions. It's best to let them be.

* * *

 **G** is for Gentlemen:

Chivalry isn't dead—not in Alfred's book.

He's punctual when picking up his date, always brings flowers or chocolates even if it isn't a special occasion, opens every door, and pulls out every chair within the vicinity to make sure she knows how important she is to him. He carries an emergency handkerchief in his back pocket (a gift from Dad), pays for every meal even if his date complains about it, and always brings her home by her curfew, no matter how early that curfew may be.

His dates are treated like royalty because if he treats them any other way, then Dad or Papa will certainly find out and give him a sound scolding.

Over the years, his parents have put him through romance-boot-camp. Always listen. Never interrupt. Offer your coat to her if she's cold. Be nice to her family. Compliment her. And by god, don't swear around her until you've been married for at least two years, and even then, keep it limited.

Above all else, be a gentleman.

Before he had even reached the second grade, his and Matthew's manners were frequently tested around the house, and Papa always reminded them that "respect and kindness are the way to a woman's heart".

But back then, manners were complicated business, and he often approached Dad and asked him why they were necessary in the first place.

"Why do I havta be a gentleman?" he would ask, standing on his tippy-toes to seem taller and more mature.

Dad would smile, pet his hair, and say, "Because it's important to treat others with the compassion and respect they deserve."

"But how come girls are treated special?"

"In today's day and age, women aren't appreciated enough for all that they do. By being gentlemen, we show women that we value them just as they value us."

It made sense even to his younger self, and the adult Alfred hopes he will be able to teach his boys these same principles because they are _not_ outdated. In fact, they are needed now more than ever.

"And never, _ever_ , lay a hand on a woman," Papa would say like a broken record. "Don't even consider it for a second! A man who hits his partner is a coward."

"But what if—?"

"But nothing! There are no excuses, young man!"

As he grew older, the questions became more complicated.

"But Dad, if we're supposed to have gender equality, why do we have to keep doing the gentlemanly stuff?"

"It's possible to embrace gender equality and still be polite. The best way to show you treat your partner as an equal is through good manners. That's what being in a relationship consists of—mutual support."

So when Alfred arrives at exactly three o'clock for his date to the movies, he doesn't hesitate to hold the car door open for her with a flourish of the hand and a "right this way, love."

* * *

 **H** is for Hard-work:

Standing behind the cash register is a step up from stocking shelves in the aisles, but at least the shelves don't talk back. Honestly, Matthew prefers the labor over dealing with angry mothers who bring their screaming children to the grocery store. The customer is always right, but at the end of his shift, he whispers profanities under his breath and says all of the things he can't say while wearing his nametag and apron.

Yes, little old lady with the thick spectacles, the strawberries are two dollars and twenty-five cents per pound, not two dollars and five cents. Inflation sucks, the economy sucks, this generation sucks, technology is destroying daily life—yadda, yadda, yadda. It's the same speech every Tuesday. Now, would you like a double bag for that?

Patience is key, and though Matthew rarely lets his temper get the best of him, standing around for five hours straight and listening to twelve autobiographies can set free the monsters in your soul.

The pay is decent, at least.

Holidays are the worst. The lines are long, costumers are irritable, and Matthew prays for reprieve from the madness. How many boxes of Christmas lights could one family possibly need? Apparently, thirteen. Everyone wants a price-check for the tinsel because the giant sign in front of it just isn't convincing enough.

He makes his retreat as soon as the clock strikes eight, whizzing past the crowds to remove himself from the buzz of commotion. He's going home to make himself a big cup of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and marshmallows. All he has to do is endure a bus ride.

Except, maybe he doesn't need the bus after all because he's pretty sure that's Papa's car stationed in front of the automatic doors to the supermarket. Sure enough, the man waves to him a moment later with a crooked smile.

" _Bonne soirée_ , Mathieu. How was work?"

"The same as always. I didn't know you were coming to pick me up."

Papa pats his shoulder. "I thought I would surprise you."

"Thank-you. I'm definitely surprised," Matthew shoots him a grin of his own.

"Every working man needs a break sometimes."

"Well, I can't argue with that."

* * *

 **I** is for Insurance:

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Dad is never going to let him borrow the car again, not after tonight. Not when he sees the dent in the bumper. In the dark, it's not very visible, but it's still there, and it might as well be the size of the Grand Canyon because Dad is going to completely flip out.

Alfred had been cruising down the road on his way back from the volunteering at a preschool not too far away when some jerk rear-ended him at a red light. He thought his neck was going to snap from the impact, and by the time he had regained some composure, the culprit had already bolted away as though nothing had happened.

He didn't even manage to catch the license plate number.

And now, as he sits on the curb and gets checked out by some paramedics, he can't stop thinking about how Dad is going to murder him for being irresponsible—for breaking his trust. Alfred has promised him multiple times to drive safely, and everything had been fine until now.

He answers some questions from the police, and they write up a report as a paramedic shines a light into his eyes and tells him he has a minor concussion.

Oh, that and his left arm feels like someone tried to saw it in half.

"Young man, we're going to have to take you to the hospital for an MRI and an x-ray."

Alfred groans and tries to reassure everyone that he is all right. There's no need to fuss over him because his father is going to put his head on a silver platter anyway. A headache and an injured arm are the least of his concerns.

But the emergency workers are insistent, and so, Alfred follows them into the back of the ambulance and sits down on the gurney, wondering if there is still time to write his will. He plans to give most of his belongings to Matthew, and whatever is left over can be cremated and dumped at sea.

Of course, he has to call Dad to inform him of the situation. He'd rather call Papa, but he's working late tonight.

After taking a deep breath and bracing himself, he calls Dad on his cellphone. Waiting for his father to pick up is excruciating, and when he finally does, Alfred finds himself incredibly dizzy.

"Dad, don't freak out, okay?"

Hearing the panic in his voice, Dad begins his stern questioning. "What's wrong?"

"There may have been a _tiny_ accident."

"An accident?" Dad's tone goes up a few octaves. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"I-It's hard to explain right now. I'm being taken to the hospital to—"

Dad cuts him off before he can finish the sentence. "The hospital?"

"I told you not to freak out."

"My god! Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay, just a little banged up."

Their conversation doesn't last very long because Dad immediately goes about heading for the hospital as though Alfred is on the verge of death. He predicted that would be his father's reaction, and—oh, Jesus Christ—when he sees that _dent_. It's going to be awful, he's sure of it. He won't be allowed to drive again until he turns forty.

When the ambulance arrives at the hospital, he's taken to the ER, where he's seen to rather promptly by a doctor, and it's nice because he had been expecting a long wait. He's given the same verdict that the paramedic gave him, except the doctor also mentions that his arm is most likely fractured. He's told that he'll be taken to radiology for an x-ray, followed by the MRI to make sure his brain is working the way it should be.

But before any of that happens, Dad arrives on the scene, eyes wide and full of concern.

"Oh, Alfred, I tried to get here as fast as I could. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain? Have you spoken to a doctor yet?"

"I already told you I'm okay, Dad. I spoke to the doctor. He thinks I have a concussion and a fractured arm."

At that news, Dad starts fretting all over again. He puts a hand on Alfred's head and says, "I want you to rest. Let me worry about everything else."

Alfred can't believe what he's hearing. Maybe Dad doesn't know the extent of the damage done to the car yet. It's probably better to tell him now than for him to find out the hard way later. "There's a dent in the bumper. I took a picture of it on my phone. I swear it was an accident. The guy just drove straight into me, and there was nothing I could do. He got away before I could get his information, and—"

Dad clicks his tongue in disbelief and sweeps the hair out of Alfred's eyes with his hand. "Shh, we can talk about that later. Your health is more important to me. The car can be fixed. I can buy a new car, but I can't buy a new Alfred."

It's such a cheesy and cliché thing to say, but it makes Alfred feel better nonetheless.

"I'm so sorry! I really am! I was driving safely like I said I would!"

"Hush, I'm not upset with you."

"Y-You're not?"

"No. Accidents happen, lad, and it doesn't matter how much driving experience one has. It happens to all of us. I'm relieved that it wasn't serious."

He's not in trouble? Just like that? He calms under the warmth of Dad's hand smoothing over his head, unbelievably tired from all of the pandemonium he's been through. He's also feeling achy and sore all over, so the soothing gesture is much appreciated.

"It's a good thing I'm under your health insurance plan," Alfred jokes, yelping when he jostles his arm in the process.

"Sleep, poppet. I'll wake you up if anything important happens."

It's nice to know that Dad still watches over him, even though he's too big to be smothered.

"Okay… Love you."

Dad's a huge softie during times of crisis, and now is no exception. "I love you too."

* * *

 **J** is for Joy:

Experiencing joy as an adult is different from when you're a kid. Matthew remembers times when the best part of the day was sitting in Papa's lap in the evenings for a good bedtime story. It didn't take much to make him smile then. He'd laugh at a funny face or at the sun in the sky. He could admire the stars with a sense of boundless wonder. He had the energy to find joy in nearly any aspect of life.

With adults, the things they notice throughout the day are different, so the joy they feel is different too.

Nowadays, seeing children play always makes Matthew shed a smile, but just a few years ago, he was the child caught in an adult's world. He enjoys silence. He enjoys the freedom to be bored. He enjoys a good book and a cup of coffee or herbal tea. He enjoys afternoon naps and simple comforts.

It's seeing the world from a whole new lens.

He enjoys the company of his family more than he used to. He enjoys the adult conversations that they can have, and the insight they share. He enjoys the fact that he can talk to his parents as though they are just ordinary people every now and then. He can talk about politics, love, or anything else he can imagine while being treated with the reverence children don't have the pleasure of experiencing.

He is an individual. He has his own thoughts, beliefs, goals, and suddenly, his parents have little say in what direction he chooses to take his life. It's both magnificent and terrifying.

"I must be getting old," he tells Alfred one evening as they sit on the porch. "I could just stay here for hours, doing absolutely nothing."

His brother is a five-year-old at heart though, and thus, he sticks his tongue out and mutters, "Yeah, soon you'll be getting a hip replacement."

It's okay though. He'll understand someday.

* * *

 **K** is for Kitchen:

When Francis and Arthur come home from work, they are pleasantly surprised to find a hot meal waiting for them on the kitchen table. Upon further inspection, they realize it is a chicken pasta Alfredo with fresh mushrooms and a rich parmesan sauce, and it's made to near perfection.

"Now who could have done this?" Arthur speculates, settling himself in a chair. They will be having dinner for two today, it seems, and he isn't complaining. Someone has also taken the luxury of lighting some scented candles.

Francis flashes a smug grin and peers into the living room where Matthew is working on his term paper.

"Mathieu, you shouldn't have… You're already so busy with other matters."

Matthew raises his head from his computer and frowns. "What are you talking about?

"The dinner in the kitchen—it was your doing, _non_?"

"That wasn't me."

"Then who—?" Francis allows himself a moment to be dumbstruck. "No… Alfred?"

Matthew hides a smile behind his hand and nods. "You need to have more faith in him."

"I have faith in him, but I'm still surprised… Arthur, I have marvelous news!" he exclaims as he rejoins his husband in the kitchen. "Alfred hasn't inherited your horrible culinary skills after all!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The boy can cook! It's a miracle! Where is he?"

Arthur narrows his eyes, already on the defensive. "Are you suggesting my cooking isn't satisfactory enough for your tastes?"

"Arthur," Francis says carefully, pecking a kiss onto the man's cheek. "You are many fantastic things, but you are not a chef."

"How could you—?"

Undaunted by the man's fury, Francis scours the house for Alfred instead. He eventually finds him in the backyard, and without thinking twice, he swishes forward and grabs him in a glorious hug, completely beside himself.

"Thank-you, Alfred! Your father and I are overjoyed!"

"Overjoyed with what?"

"The dinner you prepared for us."

Alfred furrows and rubs the stubble on his chin. He doesn't bother to shave his whiskers until Arthur starts scolding him for looking like a barbarian. "The dinner—? _Oh_ , the dinner…"

"Yes, it was quite well done."

"Well, thanks, but I didn't cook that, Papa. I bought it on my way home. You know, from the diner? I went to get some grub there because there wasn't much to eat in the house, and I thought you and Dad would like it if I picked up something for you guys too."

To say Francis is heartbroken is an understatement. He lets his arms drop from Alfred's midsection and solemnly says, "I see… I just assumed… Never mind."

"Oh, jeez. I'm sorry if I got your hopes up. If it makes you feel any better, I'm actually trying to learn a few recipes. Maybe you could show me how to make them sometime?"

"Yes, yes… Of course," Francis sighs. Perhaps there is still a way to salvage the boy's taste-buds if he keeps him away from Arthur long enough. "First thing tomorrow, you can help me cook breakfast, okay?"

"Sure!"

There is hope.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Hey, guys! I hope everyone had a great holiday. Who's excited for 2016?

* * *

 **L** is for Letting Go:

"Are you sure you have everything?"

"Yup, I think so."

"Did you pack the box of chamomile tea I bought yesterday?"

"Uh-huh. It took up space in my bag that I could've used for something else," Alfred complains, making a face when Dad combs a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and pats his cheek warmly. He vaguely wonders if people are staring at the humiliating coddling-session. What a way to start off the college experience.

"Yes, well, tea always comes in handy…"

Beside them, Matthew and Papa are sharing goodbyes in a similar fashion. Papa picks some lint off of Matthew's coat and looks him over fondly, trying not to show how much of an emotional wreck he is on the inside. According to him, the boys have no right to grow up and leave him—not yet, anyway. They aren't ready to fly out of the nest.

" _Mon lapin_ , if you or Alfred ever need anything, your father and I are just a few hours away. Don't hesitate to call."

Matthew regards Papa with a sheepish blush. Of course, he appreciates how concerned his parents are for them, but it's time he's allowed to fend for himself. "Okay, _père_."

"I love you."

"Love you too."

And with that, Papa nods, embraces Alfred and Matthew for the final time, and steps back. Dad mimics him when he's done, except he cups his hands around each of the boys' heads and plants worried kisses on their brows. He clings to them both for a long moment, heart sinking with fear at the idea of their family being splintered for months until the boys return for the holidays. How will Matthew remember to take breaks while studying and doing assignments if he isn't there to remind him? How can he trust Alfred to behave himself and be an adult when just last week he got into some trouble with his former high school friends?

Papa clears his throat and puts a hand on Dad's shoulder to calm them both. He knows he must be the rational one because as much as he is in a fragile mental state of his own, Dad is ten times worse. "We should get going, _mon amour_. I have a bit of work to take care of tonight, so we should aim to get home at a reasonable hour. Maybe the traffic won't be as awful going back."

Dad utters a sound of agreement but doesn't move. He's still holding onto Alfred and Matthew for dear life, and the twins are afraid to slip out of his grasp lest they upset him even more.

"Arthur," Papa tries again, reaching out to pull him away with a quivering arm. "Come. The boys are young men now. They will be fine."

"Yeah," Alfred assures, voice muffled against Dad's knit-sweater. "We'll be okay. I'll call you after we set up everything in our dorm."

Dad loosens his grip, and Matthew frees himself, but Alfred isn't able to wriggle away as easily. He lets Dad's limp arms close around his midsection and gives him a sad smile, pretending not to see how the man's eyes are glossed over with a thick veil of tears.

"Aww, old man, don't get all sappy on us now."

Dad does his best to look grumpy, but comes off as out-of-sorts instead.

Alfred isn't a very touchy-feely person when there are witnesses, especially not with his father, but he supposes that if there was ever a time for him to be sentimental, it's now. Normally, he laughs off awkward atmospheres with a bad pun or cheeky comment, but he's going to need a different strategy for this, and that strategy is honesty.

"H-Hey," he begins carefully, squeezing the upper-half of Dad's arm.

Green eyes blink back at him with a helpless kind of awe. Awe at the fact that Alfred is a head taller than him, even though it feels like he was watching the boy learn to crawl just yesterday.

"Just 'cause I'm going to be away for a while doesn't mean I'll… It doesn't mean…"

Darn it. Alfred's on the verge of sounding like a little kid again. Papa and Matt are staring at him now too, and they're going to tease him for a dozen eternities at this rate.

He takes a deep breath and focuses on Dad as if they're the only ones left in the world and finally says, "Being away doesn't mean I'll love you any less, or that I'll forget about you, or that I'll start rebelling any more than I already do."

Dad purses his lips as though speaking will open the flood gates. He lowers his head to rest on Alfred's shoulder and manages a weak nod.

"All right, Arthur. Come on. I'll buy you tea and dinner," Papa persuades, jingling the keys to the car.

After a painful breath, Dad lets go, and he trudges over to the passenger's side of their SUV and says, "You'd better. I'm famished."

And then, they're gone.

* * *

 **M** is for Memories:

If you ask Matthew what song he was forced to sing at his second-grade Christmas show, he won't know the answer. He can't recall how he began riding a bike or how old the stuffed polar bear in his room is. He doesn't remember much from the family trip to Florida when he was three or how he met one of his uncles on his sixth birthday.

Fortunately, he has Dad to remember those things for him.

Dad is the storekeeper of their times as a family. He knows every embarrassing story since Matthew was born. He knows that the song for the second-grade Christmas show was "Winter Wonderland" and that Matthew had been required to dress-up as a snowman. Papa spent an entire weekend on perfecting his costume, and they have the photographs to prove it.

Dad claims Matthew taught himself how to ride a bike. He simply jumped on his two-wheeler and raced Alfred to the other side of the park because Alfred had taunted him into doing it.

The trip to Florida consisted of visiting Disney World, where Dad and Papa had tried to get the boys to take a picture with Mickey Mouse, but Matthew cried the entire time because he was afraid. Apparently, he didn't find guys in bizarre character suits very entertaining.

The weird uncle from his birthday party was Connor, one of Dad's older brothers, which in retrospect, is unnerving, because Matthew can't wrap his head around Dad being a younger sibling to someone else.

Matthew has never had to hold the responsibility of remembering these things. In fact, just a few short years ago, he didn't understand why they even had to reminisce on the past. After all, isn't the present what really matters? Who cares if he went skiing for the first time when he was eight?

But as the years roll on without his permission, he sees just how easy it is to lose those little moments. When his parents are gone, who will remember the things they did together? Who will carry on their story?

"Yo, Mattie. Is there any ice cream left in the fridge?"

He snaps his head up to look at Alfred as though he hasn't seen him in twenty years. What will become of him and his brother? Will they follow the same cycle of school, work, family? Will their kids make the same mistakes and watch their youth fade away without appreciating it?

"Mattie? PAPA! I think Mattie's deaf!"

" _Mon dieu_ , Alfred. Let's have a peaceful New Year for once, all right?"

Matthew wrinkles his nose and decides he's been philosophical enough for one day. He can hear Dad softly singing "Auld Lang Syne" in the foyer, but he decides not to call him out on it this time. "Yeah, there's some rocky road in the back of the freezer. Don't eat it all."

"I can't make those kinds of promises, Matt."

"I hope it all goes to your butt."

Alfred brushes the jibe off and grins even wider. "Me too, man! Everybody needs a little extra booty."

"Yeah, of course. Now, pass the champagne, please."

He takes the charming bottle from Alfred's hands and pours himself another glass, oddly tired despite it only being nine o'clock in the evening. Dad comes in a moment later, head adorned with a bedazzled plastic hat that says, "Happy New Year", and a shirt that Papa made him wear that reads, "Here's to another year of me pretending I like you people."

Naturally, Alfred has the noisemakers, and when he returns with his ridiculously large bowl of ice cream, he makes it his mission to be as rowdy and irritating as possible. Within minutes, Dad has enough and confiscates the contraptions, telling Alfred he can have them when it gets closer to midnight.

And there they are, all gathered around in the living room like nothing has changed, except they're drinking champagne instead of the usual apple cider because Dad and Papa have made an exception to their 'no alcohol until you're twenty-one' rule. They'll be home from college for a few weeks, which is fantastic because Matthew has been homesick, and he's sure Alfred has been as well.

"Any resolutions for next year?" Alfred asks, cuddling into the armchair across the room with a barely stifled yawn. "Betcha can't guess mine."

Matthew bites the inside of his cheek and wonders if he should continue his joke from before. The opportunity is too great to pass up. "Losing weight?"

"Oh, shut up," Alfred grumbles, enthusiasm deflating a bit.

"All right, all right… I was just kidding. What is it really?"

"Get out of debt."

"I think it's too soon to look forward to that," Matthew laughs, hinting at the truth but not committing to bursting Alfred's bubble entirely. "I think I'm going to try to travel… and sleep more. Your turn, Papa."

Papa stretches the aching joints in his legs and winks. "Spending more time with my lovely family, of course. I'm waiting for your father to take me to Paris over the summer. He promised he would."

Dad snorts and thrusts an elbow into Papa's side. "I did not, but I'll see what I can organize. Trips to Europe are horrendously expensive these days. The airfare alone is enough to make one stay home."

"Yes, but we'll make memories for a lifetime if we go. Now, you didn't tell us your resolution."

"My resolution?" Dad folds his arms across his chest and lets Papa snake an arm around his shoulders. "I haven't really thought of one to be honest. Most people don't follow through with their resolutions anyway."

Matthew shrugs. His father raises a valid point. "It's still fun to think about though."

"Well then, I suppose I'd like to pick up a new hobby. With you boys at school, I've had a lot of spare time on my hands, and it wouldn't hurt to try and learn something new."

Papa nods in agreement and adds, "As long as it has nothing to do with cooking, I approve."

Dad snarls under his breath and shakes Papa's arm off. "As if I need your approval."

"I have an idea for a resolution for you, Arthur. How about being less grumpy all the time? Oh, don't make that face at me. I'm only kidding. You're laughing on the inside, aren't you?"

"No, I'm _screaming_ on the inside."

And as Papa and Dad go about their customary sparring, Matthew tells himself over and over again "I will remember you" in fear of forgetting.

* * *

 **N** is for Never Lose Yourself:

There's a reason they tell you those corny mantras in school like "always be your own person" and "never let anyone change you" and every other slogan pertaining to peer pressure that usually end up being someone's Facebook cover. They say them because you need to be reminded, even if you don't think you do.

And it's damn hard to "be yourself", especially when you're constantly exposed to a world that's always trying to tell you what to believe. If you're a Republican, you must believe a, b, and c. If you're a Democrat you follow x, y, and z.

Alfred's not sure what's right anymore. Is he pro-life or pro-choice? Is he religious or secular? If he chooses one over the other, how will people see him?

He listens to the news with Dad every night whenever they're both home. It's become a ritual of theirs. At eight o'clock sharp, Dad traipses out of the kitchen with two cups of tea and they sit on the couch, waiting for the day's top stories. Oftentimes, they get caught up in political debates, and though they both respect each other's views, it's hard to not feel passionate about a position.

And lately, the news has been getting more heated each day. If it's not the presidential race, then it's immigration or gun control or terrorism. He sees as things go from uneasy to chaotic—how people fall into a state of panic. It gets to the point that Alfred decides he can no longer watch the nightly news with his father. Instead, he grabs himself a snack from the kitchen and drinks his tea by the table. He doesn't like giving up the bonding time, but politics nowadays only serves to frustrate him. He's not sure what he thinks about things anymore. He can't have debates. He can't think straight. It's all a gigantic mess.

One night, Dad approaches him about it.

"You're going to have to listen to these types of back-and-forth arguments for the rest of your life, Alfred. It isn't pleasant. Democracy is a headache, but it's crucial that you stay informed, especially in this globalized era. Take it with a grain of salt," he recommends. "Sometimes, we just have to acknowledge that much of what goes on is out of our control."

Alfred knows this, but that doesn't mean he's willing to embrace it. "I can't do it anymore. I can't look at these dumb presidential campaigns while Syrian refugees are being mistreated. and people are saying awful things. I'd rather not know about it."

Dad sighs and braves a smile. "I thought you liked elections. They're great for a laugh now and then. As for the refugee crisis, that's a problem without a simple solution. Certainly, there are some nations in Europe vehemently opposed to them, mostly because of religious intolerance, but also because they aren't used to having a large immigrant population. These issues have to do with centuries worth of history in the region. What's important to learn from this, however, is that we are all people. We all want the same things, and while there will always be those who seek to do more harm than good, the majority of us are just trying to get through life as it is."

"B-But that doesn't change the fact that so many people's attitudes are wrong and immoral and—"

"Alfred, you will never be able to change all of those minds, but you can control your own mind. Live by your principles—no one can take that from you."

It sounds like a cop out; be happy you're not like them.

Alfred's not buying it. He'd rather just not watch the news. Somehow, that brings him more closure.

* * *

 **O** is for Old Age:

Dad and Papa are getting old.

At first, it's just small changes that catch Alfred and Matthew's attention like how Papa keeps forgetting where he puts the car keys or how Dad has taken to wearing reading glasses because he's become a tad farsighted.

And then, one day, Alfred accidentally comments on the strands of silver that have started sprinkling Dad's hair. They both get flustered and pretend nothing was said in the first place, but the damage is done, and Dad spends the following three nights in front of the mirror, scowling at his thinning hair. It takes a whole lot of persuasion, but Papa ultimately convinces him to dye it so he doesn't have to keep making a fuss.

"But that's merely hiding the real issue!" Dad argues when Papa first offers the box of hair dye to him.

Papa rolls his eyes as he searches for a clean towel in the cabinet. He doesn't trust Dad to get the job done on his own without botching it up, so he has vowed to supervise the process. "And what issue is that? You don't have to be ashamed. Plenty of men our age dye their hair."

Dad is already as red as a beet. "It's improper! One should embrace aging, not try to cover it up."

"Fine, then. Don't dye your hair. As long as you stop complaining about your appearance, I don't care what you do."

Dad grumbles some more, but he sits down on the toilet lid and doesn't say anything when Papa puts on some plastic gloves and starts smearing the dye through his graying, blond locks. "You won't tell a soul?"

"You have my word. Your secret is safe with me."

"It had better be."

When the kerfuffle over the hair is done and sorted, arthritis spurts up in Papa's wrists and in Dad's left hip. It's an occasional nuisance, and they both tolerate it quite well. They make attempts to cut out any heavy lifting, which is not always possible when there are groceries to be brought inside while the boys are away at college, but it's never a major concern.

Sometimes, Alfred and Matthew pick fun at their maturing parents, and while it's an awful thing to do in retrospect, it's harmless at first sight. Like when Dad picks up Alfred's phone call one morning and asks the boy to repeat himself three times before he finally understands the message.

"Losing your hearing, old fella?" Alfred jokes with a fond laugh. "It's okay. We both know I've got a big mouth, so I don't mind saying things again."

And those are just some of the ways they know Dad and Papa are getting old.

There are moments when the boys realize it more often than others. They'll be sitting in a booth at a restaurant, and Matt will look across the table and at his parents, stunned to see the fine wrinkles lining their eyes and mouths as though they have been roughly sketched.

It hurts. It hurts more than it should to see their parents starting to slow down and lose some of the vitality they once carried. It's only natural, but knowing that doesn't make it any easier to witness.

"Look at our beautiful boys," Papa often says, smiling enough to wash away the creases in his forehead. "We've done well, Arthur. Well, _I've_ done well, and you helped, I suppose."

As painful as it is, there's also something alluring about age—a satisfaction in having accomplished a lifetime's worth of goals. They've had their time. They've had the pleasure of living their youth.

And now it's someone else's turn.

* * *

 **P** is for Parents:

"Dad, I've tried that already, and she still won't stop crying! What did I do wrong?"

"You haven't done anything wrong, lad. She'll fuss for a while and cry herself to sleep."

"I should be helping her though! For Christ's sake, I'm her father! I can't sit here and do nothing!"

Alfred hears Dad sigh on the other end of the line and make an offhand comment to Papa in the distance.

"Listen, the best thing you can do right now is relax. You've been with the baby all day, and you're letting yourself get overwhelmed, which isn't going to do any good. Would you like me to come over and give you a hand?"

"No! I have to do this myself," Alfred snaps, frantic. With his wife, Anya, gone for the weekend to tend to a family emergency, he's been stuck on child-rearing-duty by himself. "What kind of parent drops their baby off in somebody else's hands when things get tough?"

Dad's silent for a minute, and when he hears the baby start screeching again, he says rather firmly, "I'm on my way."

It's a thirty minute drive, and when Dad's car pulls up into the driveway, Alfred can't help but admit that he's more than a little relieved. The man is at the front door seconds later, and he comes bursting in, clicking his tongue.

"Give me my grandchild," he demands, holding out his arms.

Feeling protective, Alfred brings baby Molly closer to his chest and scowls. "I can handle this."

"Oh, take a look at yourself, why don't you? You're an absolute mess. You clearly haven't slept, you're shaking like a leaf, and you've worked yourself into a cold sweat. Let me look after her for an hour or two so you can have some time to unwind."

It's a tempting offer, and after another mini-lecture, Alfred gives Molly to Dad, surrendering. The baby is still screaming and wriggling, but Dad swaddles her in a blanket, rocks her in his arms, and says in the sweetest lilt Alfred has ever heard, "Hush, now, darling."

After petting her head gently, she quiets somewhat, and Alfred looks up at his father in complete awe. "How did you do that? And did you wash your hands before you touched her? The last thing I need is for her to get sick again."

Dad laughs a soft laugh and continues his rocking. "Oh, poppet, you have so much left to learn. Leave us be. We'll be all right for now. I'll try to set her down for a nap."

"Hmph, good luck with that."

In the meantime, Alfred takes the chance to shower and get into fresh clothes. Getting a bit of peace is delightful, and when he returns to the living room to check on two of his favorite people, he finds, unsurprisingly, that Molly isn't asleep. Instead, she's sitting on her grandad's lap and playing with his watch, giggling and gurgling.

"Thank God she's not crying anymore."

Dad turns his gaze to him and smirks. "She's getting drowsy, I think. Won't be long before she's asleep."

"I hope so… Hey, thanks for everything. I know I had a breakdown before, and it wasn't cool…"

"Don't apologize. Every new parent goes through it. I'm glad I could help," Dad consoles in between humming a tune for the baby.

"It really means a lot to me. I worry sometimes that I'm a crappy father. Honestly, Molly probably deserves someone better than me—someone who can make her happy."

Dad scowls. "Don't ever say that again. You're a wonderful father, and I know you will give your child all of the love she needs and more. Besides, it's clear she loves you as well."

"She cries every time I touch her."

"That's not true. Come here."

Hesitantly (because he's afraid of another round of waterworks), Alfred tiptoes over to the couch and looks down at Molly. He takes one of her tiny hands in his and kisses it.

"See? She's not crying now," Dad murmurs.

Alfred gives her another kiss for good measure and elicits a goofy smile from the gummy-mouthed baby.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he finally remarks.

"Of course I'm right."

Molly makes a bubbly shout of approval. Maybe he's not so bad at this after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Here's the last chapter for this story! Thanks again to **kayladchristine** for requesting this through tumblr. If you'd like to follow me, submit a request, or ask a question, look for my blog on tumblr, "Mandelene Fics". Thanks for the support and enjoy!

* * *

 **Q** is for Questions:

"Where does the sun go at night?"

It's a simple question—one he should be able to answer with ease, but Alfred never did pay much attention in science class, and he's doesn't want to look like a fool or feed his daughter misinformation. He explains that because the earth is constantly spinning, the sun faces different parts of the world at different times, so the sun doesn't actually go anywhere, we do. Even that sounds like a lousy and sparse response though.

Thankfully, the child doesn't dwell on the question long, and immediately moves to the next one on her list.

"What happens when we die?"

Ugh… How does he tackle that one? Should he tell her no one really knows, or should he give her something to believe in and look forward to? She's only four, meaning the chances of her remembering this conversation are slim to none, hopefully.

"We go to heaven," he says, hammering a nail into the wall so Anya can hang the painting she bought several days ago.

"Why?"

He used to pester his parents like this as well, and they too became short with him after a series of endless queries. Alfred doesn't want to dismiss his daughter's curiosity because it's important she asks these questions, even if she doesn't fully understand them. Still, it's all too easy to lose one's temper in the process of explaining such matters.

"It's in God's plan."

"Why?"

"That's just the way it is, Molly," he snaps, giving a sharp cry of pain when he slams the hammer into his thumb. It turns an ugly shade of red, but it doesn't look like he's done any serious harm to it. The nail looks a bit wonky though. "Why don't you go check on what Mommy's doing? Tell her Daddy may have lost a finger."

"Why can't you be more careful?"

"Enough! Stop with the questions already!" he shouts, swiveling around on his heel to glare at his daughter. "Why this? Why that? Just because, Molly. Because I said so, all right?"

His stomach knots when he realizes it isn't Molly who is standing behind him. It's his wife, Anya. As he jumps to apologize, she laughs and takes his throbbing hand in hers, pressing a kiss to the swelling thumb. She has taken on the role of being a mother with such grace and ease. Meanwhile, Alfred always feels like he's the one stumbling to catch up, making too many mistakes for comfort.

"Most of the time, she does it on purpose. She knows it'll annoy you," Anya says, as though it should have been obvious. And well, perhaps it should have, but Alfred is a pushover and has fallen for many of his daughter's ploys in the past as a result. He's the lighthearted one, and Anya is usually left with the disciplining because Alfred is too soft to yell at his little girl. "You don't have to know all of the answers. If you're honest with her, she'll admire that."

Alfred puffs out his cheeks, more than a tad embarrassed. "We're getting her an encyclopedia for her birthday. Then, she won't have to ask me anything."

"Whatever you say, dear."

* * *

 **R** is for Reading:

They are a family of bookworms. At least, Matthew and Arthur are, and they never fail to make fervent attempts to impart this love for literature on the rest of their loved ones. Unfortunately, Francis is more of a visual being; he appreciates art and design more than written words. Likewise, Alfred puts his efforts in handiwork, always tinkering with trinkets and what others would consider to be broken junk. He needs to be supplied with something to craft, so sitting down with a novel isn't exactly high up on his list of hobbies.

Therefore, it's mostly just Matthew and Arthur who partake in the traditional pastime of reading for leisure. They send each other recommendations, exchange annotated classics, give their reviews on the latest bestsellers, and share thoughts on various works over tea and cookies. Their little book club of two has always been fun albeit small, and now, they have a new found hope that might help them branch out to others.

And that hope lies in Molly.

Before she's even old enough to read, Uncle Mattie and Grandad Arthur bombard her with everything from "A Wrinkle in Time" to "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory". Every time the child visits, they pick up a book from the shelf, dust it off with great care, and read aloud to her. They pray it might inspire her to pick up her own love for reading, but so far, there hasn't been any conclusive evidence to suggest they've succeeded.

Alfred, of course, complains about how they are sucking the joy out of the child's life. She should be out playing for god's sake, not toiling over salient segments from "The Polar Express".

"This is a crucial time of development in children, Al," Matthew explains, as though he is the overseer of such knowledge. "If you don't expose her to books from a young age, she'll grow up to be as illiterate as you are."

"Ha-ha," Alfred replies dryly. "Why don't you worry about that when you have your own kid, bro? Dad and Papa are waiting for another grandchild. You need to stop slacking and get to work on the baby making."

Matthew scoffs and readies a glare at Alfred. "Soon. I need to get my career together first."

"Time is running out. Molly is four already, and she needs some cousins. Think about it. We could have playdates every week!"

"Us or the kids?"

"Both!"

"Sometimes I wonder how Molly has even managed to make it to the age of four with you as her father."

Alfred's face splits into an irritating smile. "It's all Anya."

"I figured."

"But hey, I can be strict when I have to be."

Matthew cocks an eyebrow at him. "Really? I find that hard to believe."

"Yeah, I can put my foot down. Last week, I told Molly she could only have one scoop of ice cream instead of two. She whined for a bit, but you gotta be tough with kids. You'll see when you're a dad."

"Oh, yeah. You sure are authoritative," Matthew mutters, sarcastic. "I'm going to read to my kids every night."

Now Alfred is the one to point out the silliness of the claim. "Ha! Consider yourself lucky if you even have the energy for that. When you've got a toddler running around the house naked because he doesn't want to put his clothes on, I'm sure you'll be able to sit him down for a bedtime story."

Spots of red blossom on Matthew's face as he splutters, "W-Well, my kid would never do that because he'd be disciplined!"

"That's what everyone thinks. No matter how good of a parent you are, your kid is going to misbehave, and you're not always going to know how to deal with it," Alfred reasons, reaching back one hand to massage a knot out of his shoulder. "Even you're going to flip out in front of your kids sometimes."

"I wouldn't."

"Oh, yes, you would," Alfred mocks.

Maybe the jerk has a point. Matthew can't say for sure what kind of parent he would be. He hopes he'd be a good one, but it's probably not as simple as it seems. Correction—it's definitely not as easy as it seems.

It's decided then, he won't be having kids any time soon. They can wait.

* * *

 **S** is for Someday:

Someday, he'll die. Someday, his kids will die. Someday, he'll think back about how he should've done things differently and appreciated everyone while he had the chance. Hell must be full of somedays, Matthew thinks.

Someday, he'll lose Papa and Dad. Then, he'll be dropped off at a nursing home until he eventually loses himself too. And knowing his luck, he'll be stuck in the same nursing home with Alfred, and they'll be hitting on the cute nurses together while playing cards and dreaming about all the things they've done throughout the course of their little, brief lifetimes.

Someday, they'll be too old to care what anyone thinks of them. They'll say what they think and mean it. They'll cuss and fart and laugh at how stupid they used to be and how stupid they still are. They'll never learn how to be real adults, and when their grandchildren ask them to share some wisdom with them, they won't have very much to offer aside from "Never take yourselves too seriously. We did, and look where we ended up."

They'll get diabetes or cancer or dementia or all three. Or maybe they won't.

Someday, nothing they said in high school or college will matter, and they'll still be the same old Matthew and Alfred, chortling whenever someone makes an immature joke or sings a song from their childhood. The only difference will be that they'll have their blood pressure checked twice a day, and they won't be able to have visitors after nine o'clock.

They'll still race each other down the hall in wheelchairs though. They'll smile and pretend to be genteel and respectable when the youngsters come to see them, but as soon as they're gone, they'll go back to being the brats they've always been, eating whatever they please and drinking when they're on medication just because they have nothing to left to lose.

They'll still be brothers and fight like brothers do. Who gets the bed by the window? An impromptu wrestling match will determine that. A staring contest? Bring it on.

And knowing that makes Matthew feel a little better about getting old. No matter what he does, or where he goes, his troublesome twin will be there, spoiling any peace he could've had. Now he knows why siblings are necessary—to stave off loneliness. He can rest assured that if he's going down, Alfred is most certainly coming with him.

It's a comforting thought.

* * *

 **T** is for Tears: 

"Oh, love… It'll be all right. You went through something similar when you were her age. It'll run its course."

Alfred nods and tries not to show how frightened he actually is.

A few days ago, Molly contracted some sort of virus, and he and Anya kept her bedridden at home. All in all, it didn't seem much worse than the flu, but last night, at three o'clock in the morning, her fever spiked to a hundred and four degrees, prompting them to bring the child to the ER. Debilitated and too ravaged by sickness to be her usual, hyperactive self, Molly didn't make a single complaint as Alfred scooped her up into his arms and said they would be taking her to the hospital.

He'd called Dad and Papa shortly after they'd arrived, and now, as Anya sits by Molly's bedside, Alfred paces outside in the hallway, unable to relax even as Dad and Papa assure him that the girl is in good hands. Only one parent is allowed in the room at a time, and he has been alternating with Anya every thirty minutes for five hours now.

"Sit down, you're making us dizzy, _mon chou_ ," Papa says, soft and sympathetic. "Your father is right, you were ill like this once too—gave us the scare of a lifetime."

Dad stands up and puts a hand on his shoulder, stilling him. "Sit. Rest your legs. Worrying like this isn't going to fix anything."

"Says the chief worrywart himself," Alfred mocks, but the joke falls flat. Obediently, he lets Dad guide him to an empty seat, feeling just as helpless as he did when he first held Molly in his arms.

Dad rubs circles into his back, ignoring how the touch makes Alfred taut again. "The doctor said she'll be fine as long as she is kept well-hydrated and stays on the fever reducers. There's no reason to panic."

He doesn't realize he's crying until Dad pulls him close and has him rest his head on his chest. "There, there… You make such a fuss over everything."

Alfred manages a woebegone chuckle through his tears and says, "I'm turning into you. I never thought this day would come."

"I beg your pardon? What on earth is that supposed to mean?" Dad grumbles, acting a little more insulted than he actually is. He continues his soothing gestures, one hand secured around the back of Alfred's head, just as he always does when his son is distraught.

"People always say they'll never become their parents, but they do," Alfred clarifies, catching his breath. "I promised myself I'd never be a nervous parent like you."

Dad rolls his eyes, but Alfred can't see it. "It's only natural to worry. In fact, it's a good sign. It shows how much you love and care for your children."

Across from them, Papa chimes, "I told you this would happen, Arthur. The boy spent far too much time around you as a child."

"Shut it. He turned out all right," Dad snaps, a smile twisting its way onto his lips. He smooths Alfred's hair out of his face and sighs. "Chin up, poppet. Molly needs you to be calm for her, yes? She has our tough skin. Things will be better in the morning."

And Dad's right again. The following afternoon, they bring Molly home.

Tough skin, indeed.

* * *

 **U** is for Unity:

"Eww," Matthew quips, catching his fathers exchanging a kiss in the living room of their old house. It's a rare sight for them to be openly affectionate with guests hanging about, and Matthew has to admit that it's nice to know that the two are still in love. He used to wonder if they would simply have enough of each other by the time he and Alfred were fully grown, but they seem as content as ever. They have daily, petty arguments, and groan about how awful the other is, but they don't look as though they even considered parting ways at any point.

Papa wraps his arms around Dad's waist for good measure and says, "This is our house. We can do as we please."

"Yeah, yeah. Keep it family friendly though."

At first glance, Papa appears to be the one to instigate all of the pining and seduction, but Dad is coy, and he can be as much of a Casanova as Papa when he wants to be. Underneath his spiky shell, he is quite the romantic.

"How do you guys do it?" Matthew asks them. "You know, not manage to hate each other all these years?"

"Ah, Mathieu," Papa grins a lopsided grin. "True love lasts forever."

Immediately, Dad shakes his head and clears his throat. "Don't confuse the boy. He's lying, Matthew. We _do_ hate each other, but it's too late to find someone else now."

* * *

 **V** is for Virtue: 

Kids are perceptive by nature.

Alfred doesn't understand the full extent of this until he's walking Molly back from preschool. They pass by a mother with her child on the corner, and Molly instantly notes the little boy's torn up shoes and solemn expression.

It's not the first time she's seen a homeless person, but it is the first time she's seen a homeless child. Without hesitation, she skips over to the boy and flashes him a dazzling smile, front teeth missing.

"Hey, don't be sad," she tells the boy, mimicking the words Alfred has used on her many times and tasting them on her tongue. "Everything will be okay."

With a sigh and a frown, Alfred pulls a ten dollar bill out of his pocket and hands it to the boy's mother. She thanks him profusely, even when he assures her there's no need to do so. Then, he takes Molly by the hand and lets her know it's time to go—it isn't nice to pester people.

It is moments like these that make him proud to be a father.

* * *

 **W** is for Where Home Waits:

"Sorry for all of the trouble."

"Nonsense, you know you're always welcome here."

"I know, but I feel like a fool."

"It's not your fault. These things happen," Papa assures, propping up Matthew's broken leg on a stack of pillows. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"I'm fine. You've done more than enough—"

"Is there anything I can get you?" Papa repeats, stern.

"No, I'm okay."

"I'll make you a sandwich."

After a horrible skiing trip, Matthew found himself with two fractures in his fibula. His girlfriend, Maria, had convinced him to go on the advanced slope, and well, he hadn't ended things on the best foot, to say the least. Maria took the responsibility of tending to him at first, but then she had some urgent matters to settle with her brother and had to leave promptly. Hating to be a burden, but cognizant of the fact that he couldn't really manage on his own, Matthew retreated to the one place whose door was always open.

And that was how he became stuck in the hands of his fretful parents.

Papa comes back with a tray of food and an extra blanket. "Would you like to watch something on television? Alfred will be over soon to check on you."

Ah, it's good to be home.

* * *

 **X** is for Xerox: 

Anya has a bit of an obsession with Xeroxing family photos and sending them to all of their friends. Oh, and don't even get Alfred started on the holiday cards. Every year, they get their photos professionally done for Christmas, and Anya goes through the trouble of making copies and shipping them off to Dad, Papa, Matthew, and anyone else within a ten mile radius of their house.

It wouldn't be so bad if the pictures didn't always come out cheesy. Anya makes them dress up in matching outfits because it's "adorable", and then the photographer manages to capture them in the most unflattering poses with unnatural facial expressions.

It doesn't matter what the photos look like, Anya will still fawn over them for a week and pick out an equally cheesy template for the holiday card, causing Alfred to wonder if he should ever show his face around town again.

"Look what a happy family we are," Anya will say, waving the photos in the air. "Can you believe how lucky we are?"

"No, I really can't," Alfred will respond, surrendering to the inevitable humiliation. "But I wouldn't want it any other way."

* * *

 **Y** is for Yesterday:

"Hey, Al? Remember when you fell out of that tree?"

Alfred lifts his eyes up to peer at Matthew, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He surveys said tree for a moment, giving it a critical scan, and shouts, "Haha, yeah! Dad thought I cracked my skull open. I had a few bumps on my head and knees, but brushed myself off like it was nothing."

"Pffft, you acted tough for a minute. As soon as Dad picked you up and started yelling at you, you bawled your eyes out."

"I don't remember that part, so it didn't happen."

"It happened," Matthew confirms, chin resting in his hand. "I remember it like it was yesterday."

"It sure feels like yesterday. How many years has it been now?"

"Let's see… We were seven when that happened, I think. So, twenty-eight years ago? Give or take a few months."

Alfred whistles and leans back in his lawn chair. It's a beautiful summer day, and he's sunbathing with Matthew outside of their favorite, little house. "Man, we're old. Time sure does fly when you're having fun. I still remember the lecture Dad gave me that day."

Alfred pauses to ready his throat for his best impression of a British accent and says, "You're a little boy, Alfred, not a chimpanzee! If you don't stay out of that tree, I'll chop it down and tan your hide in the process!"

Matthew snickers and adds, "I thought your brother would deter you from some of these antics, but alas, not even he can tame you."

"You used to encourage me," Alfred laughs, rubbing at his carpal-tunnel ridden wrists. "You liked seeing me get in trouble."

"I won't deny that. Plus, I was curious to see what you were going to do next."

"I'm glad you've got my back."

Matthew shrugs his shoulders and watches the clouds distort into shapes. "It's what a brother does best."

* * *

 **Z** is for Zipping Up The Past:

"Once upon a time, there was a courageous knight..."

Dad is reading to Molly again, and it's a precious sight to be sure. The girl is perched in his lap, mesmerized by the pictures in whatever fairytale Dad has chosen for her this time, nose absorbed in the pages.

Not wanting to disturb the scene, Alfred stands in the doorway, arms folded across his chest as he leans his back against the doorframe. He remembers the evenings when Dad used to read to him—evenings where he was restless and wanted nothing but to go out and continue playing under the light of the stars. He would wriggle and thrash about in bed until Dad pulled out his trusty book of tall tales, hushing him with his calm and steady voice. Alfred's personal favorite was "Jack and the Beanstalk", and Dad would read it to him whenever insomnia set in.

Dad stops reading to shift his gaze to Alfred, a faint smile already on his face. "Would you like to join us?" he asks jovially, making space on the couch.

"Heck yeah I would!"

He scoots next to the two and wraps an arm around them, following along with the story. He and Dad alternate reading the passage, and Molly seems to enjoy it because she's full of giggles and squeals. They finish the story faster than they would have liked, and as quickly as the precious moment comes, it leaves.

When Alfred looks at Dad again, his eyes are full of emotion. Emotion for the time that has passed, and the time that is still to come.

"One more! One more! One more!" Molly chants, bouncing up and down on Dad's legs.

"No, it's bedtime, Molly," Alfred tells her, grimacing when his daughter gives an upset shriek of complaint. "Oh, all right… One more story."

He really has become his father.

And he's glad.


End file.
